A Little Old Lady in Leningrad
by Vetinari
Summary: What if Scotty and Chekov HADN’T started that barfight with the Klingons on K7? How else could they have POSSIBLY spent their evening? Chekov/Scotty one-off, set during "The Trouble with Tribbles."


So, the Tribbles episode pretty much converted me to Scotty/Chekov, but I was shocked to find that there were only two (2!) Chekov/Scotty fics out here for ToS. Citizens, this must be remedied!

Anyways, I was re-watching the bar scene in TTwT while I wrote this – and then I paused, because I noticed something I hadn't before. Chekov's drinking a GLASS of vodka? A whole glass? I didn't know people drank vodka neat. I didn't know it was POSSIBLE to drink vodka neat without keeling over in pain. I have (wincingly) drunk a glass of neat scotch before, but Vodka? REALLY? Damn, Chekov – DAMN.

Oh, those Russians.

*is 9 billionth person to make that joke*

Warning: Technobabble ahead. I know nothing about Starship engineering.

* * * * *

Second Lieutenant Montgomery Scott had graduated from the Academy with top honours in applied physics and engineering; he was an expert in time/warp theory, non-static beam transmission and nacelle displacement propulsion; and he was the chief engineer on the _Enterprise_, one of the most sophisticated ships of the Federation fleet. More than once, he'd been called on to save the lives of the entire crew using on-the-spot sophisticated warp theorizing, creative lateral thinking, and some not inconsiderable handiwork with a wrench. Therefore, when it came to the relatively minor topic of relieving the venting pressure on the plasma-stabilizing drives while in orbit, he was most definitely a confident speaker.

It also just so happened that he'd the spent the majority of time during the voyage to K7 reading academic journals – specifically, those articles pertaining to gravitational compensation, and so he felt pretty confident that his own opinions about the minor repairs _Enterprise_ was about to undergo were backed up by the scientific community at large. It was understandable, then, that when Chekov abruptly leaned across the table, stole his pen, and drew a tiny "x" on the engine schematic he'd sketched out on the bar napkin, he really was tempted to knock the little Boris down on his backside.

He took a sip of scotch instead. "You'll have to forgive me, ensign, but what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

"That. Right there." Chekov gestured emphatically with the pen, very nearly knocking over his glass. "That's all wrong."

"What do you mean, all wrong?"

"If you recalibrate the primary nacelle systems in an earlier phase, you won't have to worry about the pull you're trying to compensate for."

Years of familiarity with warp-coil engines slid promptly into place. "The gravitational pull _has_ to be compensated for," said Scott condescendingly. "Otherwise your engine systems won't align with your secondary systems, like your life support. You mess that up, and you'll be having the whole ship explode on you. It's intrinsic to the most basic warp engine designs."

Chekov shook his head enthusiastically. "No, no, no – you're missing another option! Old theories, old theories! I've come across this before. Here, I show you – "

Chekov pulled the napkin away from Scott's resisting hand and began to rectify the sketch. Scott only just managed to keep himself from protesting out loud, but the rest of the table was not so impassive. They'd been listening to Scott's highly technical lecture for the last five minutes with increasing trepidation, and now that their most junior bridge officer was flush with liquor and intent on showing Scott up, they tried to bite back their laughter.

Styles, who was sitting next to Scott, caught his exasperated glance and rolled his eyes sympathetically. Chekov was well-liked among the officers and crew, but everyone knew what he was like when he thought he knew better than someone else – it was easiest to let him roll off you, like water, and Scott was not so much of a stick-in-the-mud that he couldn't see the humour in the situation. He grinned in response, shrugged, and took a long swig of scotch. Around him the conversation turned away from engines back to Klingons.

Chekov, now working away industriously at the napkin, allowed the conversation to wash over his head. He was bent comically low over the table, scribbling furiously with the pen. Scott couldn't help but stare at Chekov as he worked.

The kid was smart, he'd grant him that, but Scott wasn't used to being talked down to or brushed aside, and certainly not by a kid. Chekov was insufferable. That's probably what being first in your class all your life, and being one of the youngest crewmembers in the Federation ever to be promoted officer, did to you – it swelled up your ego. Oh, of course Chekov was wildly intelligent and a vastly superior officer – he had certainly been a good find, and the Federation could use a fleet of officers like him. But he was also arrogant, didactic, opinionated, pushy and brash. Maybe he'd learn tact and respectfulness as he got older, but Scott wasn't counting on it, and at the moment he was being plain old insufferable.

And yet … despite all that, there was something terribly – well – _attractive_ about the kid – his manic grin, his cheerful arrogance, the way he hadn't yet learned to disguise his enthusiasm. The way his body jittered around uncontrollably whenever he was excited about something. Even now, when he was being so infuriating, he was also sort of … charming. Even the way he gripped Scott's pen awkwardly near the nub, fumbling in his academic eagerness to prove his point, was as endearing as it was frustrating. He had a kind of sweetness about him, something that could eat away at a person until they finally gave in, exasperated. Certainly no other pushy, arrogant, nationally chauvinistic Russian could have made such a good fit on the _Enterprise_.

But still, the kid was infuriating, and right now Scott was hyper-aware of every single one of his poor qualities, and he was not having any of it, no he wasn't.

You're not having any of it, he reminded himself sharply, when he realized that Chekov had been trying to get his attention – he'd been too busy watching the boy's small, slender hands at work to notice. He shook his head back into the present. Must be the scotch that was making him fuzzy.

"Eh? What was that?"

"See?" Chekov shoved the napkin at him, then pulled his chair closer so that they could see it from the same angle.

Scott grabbed the diagram, prepared to toss it aside contemptuously, and instead was grudgingly impressed by what he saw. The boy was good. Scott slipped out of his condescending tone – he could play that game with his students, maybe, but Chekov's design deserved an actual rebuttal. It was smart, if flawed. "No, no, no, laddie – you've got it all wrong! It's a good idea, this streamlined reconfiguration here, but you're forgetting your basics. You can't be having a primary buffer here without compensating for it in the secondary systems."

Chekov shook his head with good-natured determination.

"No, Mr Scott, I'm right! It's the same system we use for the small-scale planetary transports, you see? Just increase the expansion ratio."

Scott was vaguely aware that their friends had put some distance between them as they descended into technical babblespeak. No matter – this was more important. And talking with Chekov – even arguing with him – was … nice, in a way. Scott had rarely had the opportunity to do so. He wasn't often up on the bridge, and he'd never taken the time to get to know the young ensign. Their relationship had been one of formal, if friendly, unfamiliarity. And in spite of himself, he felt a little thrill that had nothing to do with scotch when he realized that _he_ was the one at the table talking to Chekov. _Him_. Chekov wasn't arguing with Styles or Matthews or any of the others, but _him_. This thought made him feel strangely exalted, and then he swatted that feeling away, suddenly ashamed of it. Why should he feel that way? Just because Chekov was the kind of magnetic person that everyone wanted to be around –

"Another round, here," Chekov called over his shoulder, and then turned back to their argument. Scott started – he realized he'd been slipping off into a daydream about the way Chekov's hand moved in the empty space between their bodies, rather than attending his logic.

"I'd say you've had enough, there, Chekov." This wasn't exactly true. In fact, this was a lie. The kid was small and skinny, but he must have played it tough in the motherland because the little bugger could hold his liquor. It was Scott who was beginning to feel lightheaded. Which was odd. Definitely. Maybe he hadn't eaten in a while – sometimes he forgot to eat when he was involved with his journals, maybe –

"Nonsense!" cried Chekov happily, just as ignorant of Scott's sudden discomfort as his increasing irritation with the argument. "Another round."

The others must have meandered off while they argued, for they were alone at the table now. On the one hand, just him and Chekov. On the other hand … Chekov. The kid was showing no signs of stopping – he was drawing on the napkin again. They'd filled up almost all the available space.

Scott was irritated with this argument, and he grimaced to himself as he realized that it was because he was having trouble defending the schema. Chekov seemed to be poking holes in everything, including his self-possession, and he wasn't enjoying it. Scott was not a stolid man – he was not one for puffing out his chest or posturing, and he didn't cultivate the stiff upper lip that many of the other senior officers did. He rarely tried to hide his mental state from the people around him – he wore his emotions on his sleeve.

But he did _not_ like the idea that Chekov was about to beat him in an argument, and he would do anything to make it not so.

The waitress put their drinks down, and Scott swiped his from the table with a sudden urgency. "When are you going to get off that milk diet, lad?" he asked, quickly changing the subject.

Chekov paused in mid-lecture, hair hanging all askew from where he'd been pulling at it, and then laughed.

"Scotch? It was invented by a little old lady from Leningrad! Now, vodka is a drink for men."

"Get off it, lad. Vodka's no better than water back in Scotland. Even the name 'vodka' comes from your word for 'water' – it's a child's drink!"

"How do you know your Russian so well, Mr Scott?" grinned Chekov. He touched his hand to Scott's arm, then raised his glass and drank. Probably it was an accident, a friendly gesture, nothing more. Probably Chekov hadn't meant to send a trigger of delightful little electrical signals purring up into Scott's brain. Surely he hadn't meant to cloud his eyes with cotton-fluff and sent a jolt down into his nether regions. It was an accident.

Not intentional.

… If it was intentional, then Chekov was a cruel, cruel little Russian.

Scott was vaguely aware that something was going on at the other side of the bar. He ignored it. And why were his palms sweating? Clearly he needed more scotch. He took a long swig and winced.

They'd filled up the space on the napkin by this point; Chekov had the pen again, and was writing on his own skin. He was having a little trouble navigating the contours of his hand, but he was still arguing in devastatingly coherent sentences. Scott forced himself to keep up.

"If you take into consideration the fact that you've _already_ compensated within the primary systems, then by the time the excess gets to the secondary reflexes anything else is unnecessary!"

"Nonsense!" said Scott, a little shortly. He grabbed the pen from Chekov's fingers and pulled his hand to lie down flat on the table. "_This_ valve, here," – on the ship it lay between two decks, but on Chekov's hand it lay on the first knuckle of his index finger – "is the one we're arguing about, the main release valve. The others are for the secondary vents, and _they_ can be shut down, yes, and without consequences, but we can't be changing anything without _this_ one, the main one. We'll be having a build-up of pressure, do you see?"

"No!" Chekov was about to launch into another rebuttal, but Scott cut him off.

"Look here, laddie," he said, throwing the pen down, "Just because you're a little Russian whiz-kid don't mean you get to come in here, play around with my engines, and tell me that you know better than me!"

Scott didn't realize he'd said the words until they were out, and though he immediately regretted them, he hoped against hope that Chekov would think he was kidding, or – would brush them off and keep on arguing, or – tell him he was being an idiot and he'd had too much to drink, or –

No such luck.

The change was instantaneous, and Scott had no delusions that his words hadn't gone straight to his heart – or, at least, his ego. Chekov pulled his hand away, looking suddenly awkward and unhappy. He hastily shifted his gaze away from Scott's face to stare at his hands, which were now both folded onto his lap.

"Listen, lad, I didn't mean – "

"I don't think I know better than you, Mr Scott. Not at all, sir!" He was very red in the face now, and there was something in his voice that Scott had never heard before – an odd, ringing tone that he couldn't square away with what he knew about Chekov. The vodka, Scott reminded himself: the vodka. Blame it on the vodka. Certainly the vodka, combined with the sudden, awkward shift in conversation, was playing havoc with Chekov's English. He stumbled over his words now like they were hurdles. "No, sir. I just – if you ever thought I was on the same level to argue with you, sir, I – "

Scott tried desperately to be jolly, to resume their previous bantering tone. "Come on, lad, spit it out – you were gabby enough a second ago."

"Never mind," Chekov said quietly, pulling out of the discussion. "I didn't mean any disrespect, sir. My apologies." He bit his lower lip. It was trembling. Was this really happening? Was the brash, arrogant Russian really sitting in front of him, hanging his head? Was this a hallucination? Oh, God. The sight was at once terrifying and thrilling – and there was that guilty sensation again, that deep, insistent prodding from the dark side of his brain. How long had it been since –

No, Scotty told his brain, we'll not be having that discussion tonight. It's wrong. And – probably illegal. Aye, definitely illegal. Fighting back the urge to touch Chekov, to run his fingers through that shaggy, floppy hair, Scott tried to climb his way out of the hole he'd dug for himself.

He fumbled for words. "I don't think you're disrespecting me, ensign – well, I know you don't mean to, at any rate. You just have to make room for us old dogs who are used to doing things our way and don't like young pups running in, telling us we've got it all wrong. You're a brilliant boy, Chekov; you just have to make room for us mortals, alright?"

Chekov glanced up, a strange look in his eye. "You think I'm brilliant?"

"Well, you bloody well know it, don't you?" Scott asked, exasperated at this question – he was just trying to give the boy a compliment! He grabbed Chekov's arm loosely and pushed up the sleeve of his uniform to reveal every scribble of the pen. Their whole evening's argument lay before them in diagrams and labels and long, looping arrows. "You wouldn't be dancing all over my napkin with cartoons if you didn't! Do you think there's anyone else on this ship who could spend a whole night arguing with me about binary fences? No, sir. That's what I thought."

He let Chekov's arm go. The boy was smiling a little, the kind of embarrassed smile that comes after an instance of vulnerability. Maybe Scott didn't let go as quickly as he should have. Maybe he let his finger trail down the skin of the boy's forearm accidentally.

"I mean, we're mates on this ship," he said, gruffly, recalling himself as fast as he could, and trying to ignore the way his lip was reddened _just there_ from where he'd bitten it. Bad Scott! He slapped himself hard on his mental wrist – damage control, quick. "We might not be great friends, but at least you should know I respect you professionally."

Damn you, Scott. Damn you. What in the name of the seven hells is wrong with you? Did you just say that? He's going to give you that puppy-eye look again, and I don't trust you to not break under it. Either the puppy-eyes, or he'll get mad and storm out, as he rightly should.

But Chekov did neither. No, it was worse than that.

"Well, thank you, sir," said Chekov after a moment, with a strained, polite smile on his face. Chekov's countenance wasn't suited for terseness or discretion, and the mild, unhappy smile seemed alien on the ensign's face.

Scott howled at himself. Now what have you done, you old idiot? Outwardly, he coughed and cleared his throat in a business-like manner. "Anyways, I – suppose I could take a look at your suggestions tomorrow, when I've got the repair teams out. See what you have to say about my secondary systems."

"It's not your secondary systems that are the problem," repeated Chekov, valiantly matching Scott's cool, unemotional tone, even as he stumbled over the English. "You'll have a build-up of pressure if you do it your way."

Even through his own anger at himself, Scott felt a twinge of irritation – did the boy _always_ have to be right?

But whatever else Chekov been or done that evening, he had also had an impressive amount of vodka, and if he was not actually drunk then he was certainly off-balance, and as he gestured for the waitress with his ink-blotched hand he committed the most grievous of crimes that could ever be perpetrated against a Scotsman – he knocked the glass of scotch.

He and Scott were both silent for a moment as they watched the amber liquid pool out over the table.

Chekov glanced up at Scott; he was drunk enough that he was momentarily uncertain how to react.

Scott leaped at the opportunity. "That's it," he declared, slamming his fist on the table. Chekov jumped. "You can come between me and my engines, but you don't come between me and my scotch. Out."

"No, no, no," said Chekov, clearly mortified at Scott's apparent anger, "I'll buy you another one, okay? Look, I'll fix this." He made to flag down the waitress.

"OUT, Chekov! That's an order! We've had enough this evening." Scott pulled the kid up from his chair in one swift swipe, and frogmarched him out of the bar, grasping both arms so that the kid didn't stumble or fall. Chekov, taken by surprise and clearly chagrined by his superior officer's behavior, did not resist.

The halls were nearly dead – they'd been in the bar all night. Scott dragged Chekov easily out of the station back through the _Enterprise_, and was happy to notice that he only stumbled once himself.

"Someone's had too much to drink," came a friendly jeer from an opposing corridor. Ridiculous. Couldn't possibly be talking about them.

"Certainly not," called back Chekov, "he's just naturally clumsy," but then they were gone, and suddenly they were at a door – and the door opened to the familiar scene of Scott's quarters.

"Where are we?" demanded Chekov.

"My room. You need to get some water and some sleep, in that order, and I – "

"I'm sorry about the scotch, alright, Mr Scott?" he said, in a voice that sounded more irritated than apologetic. Not surprising – Scott _had _just dragged him drunkenly through half the ship. _Why_ had he done that? _Why _hadn't he taken Chekov to his own quarters? He must have been drunker than he thought, because now he had an angry, sullen Chekov in his room, and nowhere to put him, and now the boy was staring at him with those wide, dark eyes, and his bottom lip was red where he chewed it …

Scott pushed his own hair off his forehead and gestured in what he hoped was an expansive, nonchalant fashion.

"Yeah, laddie – it was an accident. No worries. Now just go to sleep and – "

Chekov spun around so that they were face-to-face and, taking Scott completely by surprise, he grabbed the older man by the shoulders and pushed him firmly against the door.

Scott was not much taller than the average, nor was he especially broad, but he was a sturdy Scotsman and he wasn't _that_ drunk. Chekov, slight, slender and three sheets to the wind, was in no way physically intimidating. None of that mattered. Chekov could have knocked Scott down with a feather in that moment.

"Well, I don't think that's very kind of you, Mr Scott," said Chekov, with narrowed eyes. His grip tightened on Scott's shoulders – his hands were unexpectedly steady. "You think I'm just a dumb kid, don't you?"

Scott recalled the way his eyes had lit up, the way his shoulders had straightened, when Scott had told him he thought he was brilliant.

He struggled through the scotch to find his tongue. "Don't be ridiculous, laddie. You're just drunk – or, well, we're both a mite drunk. You know I don't think you're stupid! What a ridiculous thing! Now let go of me and we'll get you to bed and – "

"That's not what I mean! You think I'm a – a silly little boy. You do! Silly little Chekov with his silly little accent – he's just drunk, he spilled the scotch, let's put him to bed. Well, let me tell you something, Mr Scott – I notice a lot more than you think I do. I notice every time you come onto the bridge. I notice every time the ship changes thrusters, or her warp coils, because I know _you _were the one who did it. I have eyes in the back of my head for you! And I bet you never noticed _that_."

And then Chekov, to Scott's utter astonishment, let go of his shoulders, raised his hands to Scott's face, and kissed him.

Some small, far-away part of Scott's brain tasted the vodka on his breath, felt the awkward shaking of the hands that held Scott's head to his, knew that Chekov was nervous despite his bravado and was painfully afraid that Scott would reject this. And the rational part of Scott knew that this was a bad idea, that he _should _reject this. That Chekov was young and brash and would regret this later. That Chekov couldn't possibly … That anyways Scott shouldn't sacrifice their professional relationship – one that had just been approaching friendliness – for some shallow, physical pleasure, and besides what would Kirk say when he found out?

But the majority of Scott's brain had shut down – all he could feel were those soft, young lips on his, the way Chekov's body arched against his to gain greedy access to his mouth, the desperate, aching pressure as Chekov kissed him, kissed him hard with reckless abandon.

And all of a sudden Scott knew that if this kiss stopped, he couldn't lean back and look into Chekov's eyes and lie and pretend that he didn't want this, didn't want _him_. So he grabbed Chekov in his arms and kissed back, hard. He found relief in the boy's desire for him, responded to his unashamed vitality with an eagerness that surprised his old body. All the frustrations of the evening drained away from his mind as time narrowed to just this one moment where their bodies fell tangled onto the bed together, where Scott could feel the boy's pulse racing giddily under his palm as he moved his hand over his body, where Chekov mumbled "Mr Scott" against his lips and it felt right.

His uniform was on the floor – how had _that _happened? he couldn't remember the last time someone had seen him without a shirt on – and Chekov was straddling his hips. Scott pulled away for just a moment, to rip Chekov's uniform up off over his head, and then Chekov was leaning down again, bracing himself with his hands on Scott's shoulders and kissing him again, again, again. Scott's body was full of a glorious tension – he felt like he was in limbo between earth and sky, like Chekov had pulled him free of his dull, plodding, technical boundaries with that magnetic smile of his and was dragging him backwards through an ocean of new possibilities.

His vision narrowed to snapshots: Chekov, beautiful, arching forward, Chekov's long, pale arms pressed against the dark plane of his own chest, Chekov's hair falling in Scott's face as he trailed kisses up his neck and onto his scalp, Chekov grinning at him, his wide eyes dark with lust …

"Wait!" Scott gasped. He grasped Chekov by the forearms and slowly, painfully detached them from each another. He pushed the boy back, gently, into a sitting position, though Chekov remained straddling Scott's hips, and his hands sat restlessly on Scott's belly. Chekov was vertical again, staring down at him with a puzzled expression as their chests both panted for breath.

All the reasons why this was terrible, terrible, terrible – regardless of the fact that Scott craved to have him in his arms and had been craving it for half the night – now crowded in his brain, and Scott, beginning to panic, took a deep breath to steady himself.

"Wait, wait laddie." He compensated for Chekov's weight and eased himself up into a sitting position. Their legs tangled together, one on top of the other, but Scott held Chekov gently away, and watched as the keen, eager expression softened slowly into hesitation. "This – this is a bad idea. We can't be doing this."

Silence from Chekov – he merely watched Scott with an unreadable face, and Scott's sense of panic compelled him to push on, to convince him, to convince himself. "These are just chemicals, left-over bits of – of random feelings, I don't know. This is a mistake, we can't do this. You're young, you've been cooped up too long, we've been spatting and drinking all night – let's just …"

He was stalled by the look on Chekov's face.

He expected Chekov to look sad, or angry, or resigned.

But Chekov – not for the first time this evening – surprised him. He was smiling, and shook his head indulgently, as though he were trapped in a room with a two-year-old. "Oh dear oh dear – what do I do with you, Mr Scott? First you don't believe me about engines, now you don't believe me about this. I think you are going to find that I am right about both. What do I have to say to convince you?"

He leaned forward and gathered Scott's face between his hands. He smiled, gently, as though being careful not to spook him, and spoke in a voice that was – for Chekov – very quiet, almost vulnerable. "This is not the vodka talking, and I'm no little child. I know what I want, and I want you. I will say it one hundred times if it will help you believe it. I want you. Right now."

Scott gulped. The boy – this infuriating, arrogant, naïve, sexy, sweet, lithe, brash boy – wanted him?

"You want me?"

Chekov grinned, and touched his forehead to Scott's. "Yes."

"Right now?"

Chekov leaned back and rolled his eyes. "Well, six months ago when I first fell in love with you would have been ideal, but seeing as how we haven't mastered time travel yet, right now will have to do."

"Are you sure?" was all Scott could manage. His mouth had gone stupid on him.

Chekov grinned. "Think of it this way, Mr Scott. I can't think of a better way of relieving pressure on the main systems."

* * * * *

When he woke up the next morning, Scott blinked a little, vaguely aware that something was slightly off. In the few seconds he had before his brain caught up with his body, he could sense only that he was very, very comfortable. Next, he was aware that his limbs were not quite in their regular positions. Next, he was aware of a very soft breathing – extra heat, the pneumatic warmth of another body – a cheek against his skin, someone's shoulder burrowed into his lower back. Without looking down, because he no longer needed to, he stroked the arms that were wrapped around his midriff and, because he was secure in the knowledge that Chekov was behind him and still seemed fast asleep, he allowed himself to grin insanely into his pillow.

A gleeful little shiver ran through his body as he tried very, very hard to keep from giggling out loud, but it was apparently enough to wake his companion; he felt Chekov stir against him.

"Are you awake, Mr Scott?" the little voice mumbled.

"Aye, lad."

"I think I have a confession to make."

"Aye?"

"I think I had too much vodka last night."

Scott felt a sick trickle of dread pool in his stomach. "And – what makes you say that, lad?" he pressed, cautiously.

Chekov nuzzled the back of his neck and said, sulkily, "Really awful headache."

The anxiety vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Scott waited until he was able to push the wild grin off his face, then he gently lifted Chekov's arms away and turned over onto his other side to face him. It was a bit of a jolt to see Chekov's face in his bed, lying right next to him, but it was also the best feeling he'd had in months – even if the face was looking a little peaky.

Because even though it was pale, it smiled at him, and kissed him on the nose.

Scott decided to pretend that his heart hadn't dissolved into a big squishy lump when Chekov did that, and instead goaded him a little. "What's the matter, lad? Can't handle your liquor?"

Chekov pretended to pout. "You were only drinking scotch, you can't talk. Little old lady in Leningrad, remember. But vodka … now, vodka is really a monster."

Scott laughed. "Here, then, let me help." He pulled Chekov into his arms and kissed the lad's hair. "You have three hours until morning watch. Plenty of time to sleep it off."

"Good stuff," said Chekov happily; he snuggled down into Scott's chest, and they both drifted back to sleep.

~ Fin~

Guys, this took me two (work!) days to write and edit. SERIOUSLY. Apparently I'm now making up for all my heel-dragging with that Greed/Envy fic.


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